Variations
by LunaStorm
Summary: ...on the theme of looking after a John Smith, and his ornate fob watch.
1. Sarah Jane Smith

**Sarah Jane**

**XI.**

He barges into her small office like the whirlwind of energy Sarah Jane is getting used to him being, a long-sleeved shirt open over a t-shirt which looks utterly incongruous in the place of tweed and bowtie, that ridiculous flop of hair dangling over a young face and eyes that no longer hold the wisdom of the universe; and she feels, as ever, uncertain.

His utterly outdated but cherished Leica M4 is hanging precariously from his neck, in perpetual danger of crashing into something, or someone, due to the fact that he never stays still – even now his limbs are flailing about, making his clothes flap madly around his tall frame as he stomps here and there in the confines of the tiny room, touching everything in his range, attention flitting about at a head-spinning rate, absently relocating her items in a haphazard way that never fails to irritate her.

It's tiring just to watch him.

He's already ranting, typically, in that odd way of his that is half arrogant boasting and half childish pouting and more than half just whining and which Sarah really, really shouldn't find endearing. But there you go.

"…and whatever you say, Madam-Editor-In-Chief, the fact remains that I'm the best reporter you have and you know it, Sarah Jane, don't pretend you don't, and this is big, I promise, it's nothing like the spiders story... Sarah Jane, this is _big_, I feel it in my gut, and if you'll just let me…"

He's going on and on about a new kind of dieting pill and if she was in her journalist frame of mind, she'd likely agree that this is news worthy indeed, but she isn't listening too closely.

Instead, she lets him rant and rave and idly wonders in the privacy of her mind whether she will ever get used to his radical changes - dapper, flamboyant man of action to aloof, bohemian-looking explorer, to cheeky, foxy and sad, to… this. Yet she knows that this latest change is unnerving not because she can't wrap her mind around the new him, but because it isn't _him_.

Just a manic, uncoordinated, upcoming journalist, with dreams of seeing the world one day and a useful knack to get the weirdest stories out there captured in vivid pictures and flashy words.

As human as they come – and isn't that mind-boggling.

The Doctor she'd fallen for had been alien even to his own people; she can find no trace of him in this… kid.

He's resorted to the puppy-eyes now, attempting to stand still and look beseechingly at her but unable to stop fidgeting. His green eyes are wide and pleading and they almost hurt her in their innocence, in their ignorance.

Not the Doctor. Just John Smith.

She sighs and feigns a reluctance she doesn't feel when she grants him permission to investigate whatever has him all fired up. So long as she can keep him away from UNIT and Torchwood and all things alien, she's fine with whatever he wants to write about, really; it's not like the magazine she's running is even real, after all. Just the cover the Tardis came up with when she brought him to Sarah Jane for... safekeeping. Implanted cover or not, it is real to him, however, and he lights up with enthusiasm at her agreement, crowing loudly and making even the articles pinned to her walls flitter and flap with his mere, whirlwind-like presence.

Her mind is elsewhere. She absently strokes the ornate fob watch she keeps on her person at absolutely all times and freezes with faint embarrassment when she realizes she's doing it.

He tosses a cheery goodbye at her and she watches him flounce off, as usual finding herself vaguely amazed that he doesn't trip on anything, let alone his own flailing limbs; when he's gone she falls back against her chair dejectedly.

She's honoured that he's chosen her for this, chosen to trust _her_, over all his other companions, with his safety; honoured and flattered and humbled, a little; as well as reassured about the strength of their friendship.

And of course, she'll do anything in her not inconsiderable power to keep him safe.

But...

Her hand strokes gently the fob watch holding the real him once more.

Six more weeks to go.

And God, she can't wait for this to be over.

* * *

** X.**

Sarah tries hard to quench her bitterness; she really does. It's unbecoming; most likely unwarranted, she tries to tell herself.  
But the way Dr. John Smith – not the Doctor, no: just 'a' doctor, just human, albeit temporarily – barely spares her a glance while crossing paths with her in the corridors, hurts her.

She thought that running into that careless, older him and... Rose... had been heartbreaking enough; but apparently, he can be even more thoughtlessly cruel than she'd given him credit for. Now he's manipulated her into helping him with yet another mad plan, one that is by far the craziest and stupidest she's taken part in, and without a care for her feelings he's taking advantage of her friendship.

She's still not entirely over the shock of meeting him again. She's barely coping with the shock of watching him be... not himself; young and attractive and flirty – although not with her. Oh, no. She's a bit out of his apparent age range and... she's never felt so old.

It's hard to watch him talk animatedly with the other scientists of his team and feel so excluded. _She's_ responsible for him, after all!  
But of course, he doesn't realize – doesn't remember this. Isn't even himself.

Still, she'd thought the 'residual awareness' he'd mentioned would ensure he'd recognize her as the friend she was sure of being! Instead, they're nothing more than workplace acquaintances, if even that. Had they ever been more?

In all honesty, she feels used.

She also wonders where Rose is, why she isn't the one taking care of the human he's turned himself into, whether it's because he's left her as he'd left Sarah herself, just like she'd expected him to do; she wonders why the blonde girl hasn't come to her after being abandoned, whether she will one day; whether her Aberdeen was simply too far away from this space and time for her to be able to.

She sighs despondently.

She's been expecting Rose to come to her for help and instead, it's the Doctor who's come; and like the wide-eyed girl she'd been so long ago, she's jumped at the chance, let him rope her into his life again, wilfully blind to the consequences.

A part of her wishes she could have hold fast to her refusal, which had cost her so much – she'd so longed to feel the hum of the Tardis all around her once more! - but which was the right choice for her. The choice that let her grow into the future she deserves, without rejecting the past but without clinging to it either.  
Somehow, with Rose there it had been much easier.

She spends far too much time going over her long years of acquaintance with the Doctor with a fine-toothed comb, wondering how much she'd misunderstood their relationship or what has happened to change it so radically.

This stranger walking about in his newest body has no recollection of her, no 'residual awareness' at all; no regard or friendship or even, she suspects, respect for her. She finds herself inexorably wondering if he ever did.

Watching him move confidently in the UNIT labs brings back memories of happier times, that make it even harder to cope with the situation he's put her in.

He's going through this fake life of his like the stereotypical absentminded genius – spiky hair and all – and he fits right in with the other geniuses employed by the organization. Sarah has watched him getting chummy with Dr. Malcom, who's over the moon at having a friend, let alone one that understands his technobabble; reverse engineering a salvaged alien sonic depth-sounder in less than 72 hours; cooperating to a joint project for the Stratospheric Observatory for Infrared Astronomy; ...generally being invaluable.

She hasn't had much of a role in Dr. Smith's life so far.

It's only thanks to her long-standing contacts inside UNIT that she can stay close to him at all – enough to keep an eye on him, at least, because there is certainly no closeness between them. She's just one of the many, many faces that crowd any UNIT building. A co-worker at best, though the general attitude among scientists is that, as one of UNIT's official chronicler and press liaisons, she's more like a janitor than like **_them_.**

She's oh, so very grateful to the Brigadier for his help. The old man is far too familiar with the Doctor's weird existence and he's taken the latest challenge in stride; he's also influential enough in UNIT, still, to pull all the needed strings to ensure the Doctor's safety. A part of her wonders if the Doctor shouldn't have gone to him directly. Another part of her wonders if maybe she was wrong in roping UNIT into this; but she's too familiar, herself, with the Doctor's lifestyle, to hope that everything will go smooth and when these Hunters find them, as they inevitably will, she wants no civilian to become collateral damage.

She doesn't like that she's living under armed escort because of this, but the precious treasure she's refused to hand over – the silver casing hiding the Doctor's true essence – justifies this. Regardless of her feeling towards him, she'll never let anything happen to him, in whatever form. She takes her role as custodian very, very seriously.

It's too bad none of the over-professional soldiers assigned to her can help at all with the emotional side of this mess, however.

It's all up to her and so far, any overture she's attempted towards the human him has been, well, not rejected outright, no; but rather, politely ignored.

It hurts.

And it stirs up again all the nasty, bitter feelings she'd believed purged after their reunion in that school.

She'd thought herself over what she'd allowed him to do to her and here she is, battling her own disappointment again. She has a feeling she won't be able to forget that he's once again put her into this position, where she doubts herself and wallows in self-pity.

This, more than anything he's done or not done, is why she won't easily forgive him.

Her hand slips into the pocket where the ornate fob watch rests securely and worries at it.

Two more months to go. She's counting the minutes.

* * *

** IX.**

He is exactly where she expected to find him, half-sitting half-sprawled in a corner of the little, run-down playground, wedged between a bench and a trash bin as if he wanted to get rid of himself and couldn't quite manage. His long legs are stretched out before him and his dusty leather jacket is wrapped around his body like a tight armour.

At least the bottle only looks half-empty, this time.

She holds in her sigh and goes to sit on the bench next to him, looking at the shadows of the vandalized swings instead of at the man she's here for, and stays quiet in the deepening darkness.

It takes long enough that night has wrapped itself around her, chilling her and isolating her in the dark, before he heaves himself out of where he's dumped himself and slips onto the bench next to her, his stale smell of sweat and alcohol making her firm her lips over the disapproval she would like to voice.

She doesn't look at him.

It is another long silence before he breaks it and his rough, emotionless voice does nothing to combat the cold that's seeped into her.

"Why are you here, Sarah Jane?"

His northern accent is a slight shock every time, the one thing she just can't get used to, even now that piercing blue eyes and strong features and ever-present leather have become the norm, the way teeth and curls and hat and scarf had, once upon a time.

"To take you home," she answers softly and her hand clutches the ornate fob watch she's been entrusted with, the repository holding the true Doctor's essence.

She doesn't know what happened to him, where this broken man beside her comes from; but she can guess. She's an investigative journalist, after all, and a damn good one: she can piece clues together and get the story.

He didn't come back for her, and when he did, the Tardis was a bit of a mess, poor thing, and his tired, perfunctory explanation broke on the admission that he needed her help because there was no one else left. And this man, this stranger who handles the Doctor's body while he hides away from relentless enemies, believes himself a veteran. Major John Smith, MD, recently invalided back from Afghanistan. Hurt, and lost, and alone.

"I have no home," comes the predicted reply, grieved and bitter and - yes. Sarah Jane has a very clear idea of what happened and she weeps inside for her fantastic friend, and what he's lost, and how broken he is.

He lifts themind-boggling.

"Come on," she says, trying to coax him, but he jerks away from her touch as if it burned him.

"What the hell!" he shouts with sudden fury. "You're not my sodding wife, Sarah Jane! Leave me the hell alone!"

"I'm your friend," she says, forcing herself to keep still, her tone to stay level.

He scoffs loudly and she flinches.

"We used to..." she tries feebly, and isn't even sure of how she means to finish the sentence.

He scoffs again. "Whatever... relationship," he spits it out with contempt, "we might have had once, it's a lifetime ago. You moved on, I moved on, shit happened! Go back to your pretty suburban life and leave me alone!" he yells.

"Doc- John..."

"It's over and done with!" Although she can't see him in the dark, she knows he's glaring. "You're not my _anything_ now!"

She refuses to let the angry words hurt her; refuses to believe there's any truth in them.

"I'm still your friend," she says simply. "I'll always be your friend."

This time, he relinquishes the bottle at least. He's breathing hard and probably glaring at the darkness. Thrumming with energy for a long instant, until he sags in morose weariness.

She gives him a moment and clutches the fob watch tightly again.

Two and a half months left with this human version of him. She can do this. She can also, hopefully, do him some good. Maybe these mayfly-like Hunters are more of a blessing than a curse: a chance for him to work through some of his demons, to heal a little, in a quiet place with a friend nearby.

She doesn't let herself hope that they'll go back to travelling afterwards, because one thing is clear to her: the full Time Lord version of him will be just as much of a wreck.

And her heart breaks for him.


	2. Mickey Smith

**Mickey**

**XI.**

Mickey sips his tea pensively and regards the mystifying alien who's taking a toaster apart on his kitchen table.

Not that he's an alien at the moment: the latest craziness involves turning himself human, of all things, and forgetting all about his real self in the process. Just for a few months, he promised, just long enough for these mayfly-like Hunters to live out their short lives without any hope of finding him.

Now, Mickey has seen some very weird stuff, he has. He's lived in two universes – count 'em: _two_ . He's chased – and been chased by – aliens of all sorts. He's travelled in the _Tardis_ .

The Doctor's crazy explanation doesn't faze him, nor does his absolutely insane plan.

He finds himself wondering, though. Because this is the third 'him' he knows and for all the Time Lord's secretiveness and alien-ness, he's managed to learn a lot about the Doctor. Enough to realize that there are – there must be – other ways to deal with this particular threat.

Mickey suspects that this turning-human absurdity has more to do with the Doctor wishing he wasn't the Doctor for once, wishing the universe would take care of itself for a little while.

He won't say anything, though.

If there is one thing he's proud of, it's how much he's grown since he was that cowardly kid from the Powell Estate who couldn't see how special the stars are; and part of his hard-won open-mindedness is a tendency to live and let live.

Martha frets and grumbles – she wants to fix things, solve matters, get answers, she wants to _act_ .

Mickey is content with keeping an eye on things.

He guesses this is why the Doctor came to _him_, of all people – hardly the first one you'd think of, Mickey the Idiot, is he? As Jake once joked, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but... dependable. Reliable. Trustworthy.

And here _the Doctor _is, trusting him of all people with... well... himself.

He slips the ornate fob watch he's been given out of a pocket and turns it over and over in his hand, keeping it instinctively half-hidden. Amazing that such a small thing could hold one of the greatest being he's ever been fortunate enough to meet.

He nods to himself and puts his mug down, slipping the precious watch back into his pocket and preparing himself for yet another day of the charade he's promised to keep up for these three months.

"John, it's half nine. Do you plan to open today?"

Green eyes snap up to him, clouded with confusion; then they clear abruptly: "Hhm! Hmhhmmh!"

Shaking his head impatiently (and making that hair of his flop wildly), the human Doctor dumps a pile of random pieces onto the table and takes out of his lips the screws he'd stuck there to have them at hand. "Sorry," he mumbles quickly. "Sorry. Yeah, of course. Opening. Yeah. Forgot about that."

Mickey smiles and gets his coat while 'John Smith' bounces all over the small flat they've arranged for him in the attic of their house, collecting this and that and ooh, that too, and forgetting essentials like keys and wallet until Mickey hands them to him on their way out.

John launches into a tirade on a completely random topic as they walk – that's one thing that hasn't changed – and soon they're at the small curio shop that has somehow been set up for the human Doctor. Almost at once, John disappears into the dusty bowels of the storage room to do who knows what.

Imagine that, the Doctor working in a shop. Rose would have thought it a lark! He wishes she was here to laugh with them.

Mickey tidies and arranges a few things unhurriedly. There are never many customers, especially in the morning, so there's no reason to fret. That doesn't mean the little curio shop is ever boring, though. The amount of weird things that can be found on its shelves is simply astounding and Mickey spends most of his time perusing and wondering about the unusual objects. He's fairly certain at least some of them are aliens, whether John remembers it or not: surely humankind hasn't come up with all those oddities?

John himself is the oddest thing of all – no matter how human he is – and he charms their customers effortlessly with his wild tales and his peculiar knack for finding just what they didn't know they were looking for and his graceful clumsiness. Mickey vows to never tell him how much John reminds him of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka.

In the evenings, they get back to dinner and Martha's anxious energy – she's using her UNIT contacts to research these Hunters, but without much success; she's running herself ragged, she is.

Mickey isn't entirely clear on why the situation is so distressing to her, but he has his work cut out for him, keeping her from confusing and worrying a thankfully oblivious John with her fretting. He makes a point to tease that agonizing frown away from her face every evening, mostly with kisses – keeping her lips occupied so she won't bite them so viciously in worry anymore.

He doesn't mind that last part too much.

He wonders why everybody else is so terribly worried by the whole situation. Haven't they faced much weirder – and more dangerous – stuff?

Mickey knows that once this parenthesis is over the Doctor will be back to himself in excellent shape and he knows that he can keep the fob watch – the real Doctor – safe in the meanwhile. What's to fret about?

* * *

**X.**

So there was a time when Mickey's life was normal, right? He thinks, if he puts his mind to the task, he might even remember what that was like.

'Course, that was before a bloody alien from outer space had landed heavily onto said normal life, dragging more aliens in his wake, not to mention exploding buildings, missiles, weird concoctions, conspiracy theories and whatnot. Oh, and sweeping off Mickey's girlfriend to lands unknown in the process. If lands was even the right word.

Now, Mickey is a good soul, everybody says that. He knows – can see it every time she comes back – that Rose is happier with the mad alien than she'd ever be with him. He's come to accept it, even, though it has taken him a while.

Same with the being an alien business – he isn't the fastest catcher, but he got there, eventually, and now he is perfectly comfortable discussing people from outer space and the various disasters they bring to Earth. He's even grown enough to admit that there is a chance humans might bring just as many disasters elsewhere in turn (Captain Cheesecake has certainly gone a way to convince him of this).

So all in all, Mickey could live with life how it is now, no matter how far from normal it is.

What he can seriously not figure out is how he's gone from having an alien drop by from time to time when his ex-girlfriend is in a mood to visit, to having said alien live in his bloody flat.

Mind you, said alien isn't an alien at all at the moment. Apparently. Mickey has some trouble wrapping his mind around the whole thing.

The not-an-alien-at-the-moment Doctor shuts Mickey's fridge with a bang and turns to him with a scowl, hair sticking up atop his head in a way Mickey would never, ever admit to envy.

"We're out of bananas," he says in displeasure. "Why are we out of bananas?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Dunno," he replies. "Maybe because you didn't buy them?"

The not-really-the-Doctor's scowl deepens and Mickey finds a little, petty satisfaction in that.

"Go buy some bananas, Mickey," his temporary flatmate orders dismissively.

Mickey rolls his eyes again and doesn't move from the couch, where he's busy beating his own record at _Gran Turismo_. The damn not-alien can buy his own bananas. Mickey's not his bloody servant!

The temporarily-a-human-Doctor makes an impatient sound of frustration and starts rummaging in the haphazard pile of files they've covered the table with.

"Where's the stuff on the Bromel case?" he demands.

"How should I know?" Mickey retorts, focus on the all-important fine tuning of his virtual car more than on his current flatmate's non-existent organizational skills.

The human Doctor huffs and Mickey grumbles – both feeling irritated. They can get on each other's nerves like pro, he reflects.

Maybe he should have just told the damn alien 'no', when he came into his flat like a hurricane, demanding that Mickey help him hide. Hide _as a human_ , and _as a watch_ . However that works.

Yeah, Mickey should probably have told him no. Surely Jackie could have handled the thing – kept the ornate fob watch safe, kept an eye on the Doctor-turned-human, all that. Ok, maybe she would have slapped him into changing his face again, for leaving Rose God knows where ("She'll be safe, there, I'm the one in trouble!" he'd cried – and Mickey really, really hopes it's true). Still. Why hasn't he sent the crazy alien to Jackie?

Then again, it's kind of neat, this: the Doctor needing _his_ help. Mickey the Idiot to the rescue. Hah! So much for that bloody alien's so-called awesomeness.

He doesn't want to look too closely to why, things being as they are, the alien-in-need (turned human) still ended up being his boss.

Besides, that's the plus point of this whole, mad situation: they're now, officially, Private investigators of Paranormal Activities in London. 'Course, he loves being a mechanic, really, but... occult detectives – how _cool_ is that?

Even if the not-alien thinks Mickey's just an _assistant_ .

Some time later, the not-Doctor (and, alright, Mickey should probably start calling him John, no matter how absurd he finds the whole thing) comes up from his perusal of the papers and pictures with a triumphant "Ah-ha!"

That manages to drag Mickey away from his videogame at last.

"Mickey, I need you to obtain the phone records of the girlfriend, name's Rebecca Myers – I think we're onto something here!" he calls out with keenness. He grabs his coat on the way out, bouncing with energy. "I'm going to follow this other lead meanwhile - reported haunting in an abandoned dance hall, hah! I bet it's nothing but a prank. Have those records ready in a couple hours!"

Mickey doesn't want to admit it, but he's rather flattered that John seems convinced he's hired him for his excellent skills with computers.

'Residual awareness', the Doctor had called it: "I should have just enough _residual awareness_ to let you in," he'd said. Well, the 'residual awareness' apparently includes Mickey's computer skills and he's rather pleased, because, well. It says the Doctor sort of admires him for it, right? Which is, yeah, it's good. Not that Mickey needs the bloody alien's approval... 'course not. But, yeah. It's good. He bets ol' Big Ears wouldn't have thought this much of him.

All the same...

"And buy some bananas!" comes the irritate shout from the stairs, just before the door slams shut after him.

Mickey clenches his teeth.

All the same, he can't wait for these three months to be over!

* * *

IX.

There have been a lot of times, in Mickey Smith's life, when he's wished _that bloody alien_ serious harm with all his heart.

During the year Rose missed, for instance, it had been a daily occurrence. No, scratch that: it had happened several times a day.

After the whole blowing up 10 Downing Street to save the world thing, he'd sort of tried to get over his resentment, as best he could. After all, the alien had been decent enough to invite him along and he couldn't be blamed for Mickey being a spineless coward.

No wonder Rose left him behind so easily: she was born to fly, that amazing girl, and burn as brightly as the stars; and that bloody alien is the one who can help her do just that.

Of course, Mickey – steady, down-to-earth best mate that he is – will be the one to pick up the pieces when that bloody alien burns her wings, like he's bound to do, eventually, and she is forced to come back to Earth – literally and metaphorically.

He's been waiting patiently for just that.

Because of course she will come back.

Or so he'd firmly believed, at least, but perhaps it has been naive to trust that bloody alien to bring her home again; because here he is, and Rose's nowhere in sight.

Oh, yes: there have been plenty of times when Mickey has wished the Doctor harm: but now, now is the first time when he actually considers _doing_ it (as opposed to just hoping he'll trip and break his neck or something).

He definitely feels furious enough to manage it, too. Especially since the bloody alien in question is now a bloody human. A human! How ridiculous is that?

But his absurd craziness isn't a problem (it's rather a given, after all). No, what Mickey can't – won't – forgive is that he's left Rose... _somewhere_. On an alien planet whose name Mickey's already forgotten.

He's left. Rose. On a freaking. Alien. Planet!

Mickey doesn't care one whit about his having to escape in a hurry (he'd bet the Doctor's provoked these Hunters somehow, that's the kind of thing he'd do), their being able to follow him through time (the explanation didn't make a lick of sense to him anyway), her being safer where she is (that really only means that _London_ isn't safe, which doesn't sit well with Mickey at all) and he doesn't believe that bloody alien had the sense to leave her with enough money to live well, wherever she is (she's told him how the cheapskate hadn't even paid for chips on their bloody first date – even Mickey had never fallen so low, poor boyfriend though he might have been).

As for believing he'll be right back for her and she won't even notice he'd gone... yeah, right. Mickey'd heard _that_ one before (and been brought up on charges for it!).

No, the bloody alien has really crossed the limit this time.

And the nerve to ask for Mickey's help!

He glowers silently at the jeans-clad legs sticking out of a gorgeous, 1930 Bentley Speed Six Mulliner drop head coupé, rather improbably arrived at their workshop that morning and which Mickey simply _aches_ to get his hands on (but of course the bloody alien had got the once-in-a-lifetime-on-the-Estate job instead, regardless of the fact that he's the last hired mechanic in the place).

Really, the only thing stopping him from punching the bastard is the fact that he, quite clearly, remembers nothing of who he truly is.

But once the required three months are up… Oh, Mickey is going to demand answers. He will, just you watch him. He won't be intimidated by the bloody alien, nossir, not this time.

He wishes he didn't have to wait so long. He's actually had to leave the weird fob watch he's entrusted with hidden at home, to avoid the temptation of opening it too soon. He might resent the Doctor for putting him into this position (and leaving Rose on an alien planet!) but he doesn't dare risk the world just to give the bloody alien a piece of his mind.

There will be time later.

The loathed Manchester accent sounds from underneath the car of his dreams, demanding a torque wrench. Mickey's eye twitches in irritation, but he reluctantly moves to assist the alien pretending to be a mechanic. Not fast enough, obviously, as he's subjected to the all-too-familiar 'lazy ape' grumblings.

He is _so_ going to punch him in the nose as soon as he's back to himself.


	3. Craig Owens

**Craig **

**XI.**

Craig often wonders whether giving the keys of his home to a slightly odd, if likable, flatmate, who later turned out to be a powerful time-travelling alien who saves the universe in his spare time, was the best or worst decision of his life.

On the one hand, there are murderous fake apartments upstairs, soulless metalmen trying to cyberize him, and the occasional nightmare leftover from the head-butt/memory sharing. Not good.

On the other hand, there is Sophie loving him, baby Alfie looking up to him and generally finding a backbone in himself that he'd rather feared didn't exist. Very, very good.

Yeah, on balance, he's rather glad to have befriended a mad alien. And friendship, true friendship... well, you have to take the bad along with the good, don't you? Otherwise you're just cheating.

So when the Doctor shows up looking more frazzled than usual and babbling about a threat he needs to hide from, Craig just nods thoughtfully and agrees to help his friend.

Because that's what friends do – even, as he explains to his son very seriously, when they're friends with a dangerous alien.

Sophie takes some convincing, but Craig, for all that he is quiet and laidback, is also steadfast; and she does love him (which is a perpetual source of wonder for him) and she likes the Doctor too (which is also a source of bafflement, come to think of it).

As mad plans go, turning himself human for a few months seems pretty tame to Craig; he has absolutely no problem remembering to call the Doctor 'John Smith' (it was, after all, the name he'd first introduced himself with) and if the fact that his friend seems convinced that he is temporarily living on his and Sophie's couch because of a bad break-up throws him a bit, it's only briefly.

Besides, the Doctor is keeping the garden in top condition as a way of thanking them and Sophie very much appreciates that.

They quickly settle into a pleasant routine.

Stormy (the nickname has stuck and, as compromise between Stormageddon and Alfie, is rather good, Craig feels) positively adores John: he is forever running about him with wide, admiring eyes and the alien-turned-human seems to have infinite patience with the five-years-old, playing countless games of daring explorers in the backyard, or of space pirates in the living room, or sentient otters in the bathr- wait, what? ...Right. Still weird, even if human. It's almost comforting.

John fancies himself a writer, apparently, and sort of works on-and-off at his 'big novel'... and also at short children's tales for Stormy... and at a 'creative cookbook' which will never have any success (-fish fingers and custard? Seriously?!)... and sometimes (when he's particularly bored) at a DIY manual about repairing domestic appliances...

That last one is the source of a lot of strife at first, since it requires 'research'(and a rather high tribute in toasters) – but after a few weeks, Sophie has come to the point of just sighing in exasperation and making him clean up the mess after he 'improves' the blender, or the vacuum cleaner, or Stormy's toy plane. He pouts and protests, but complies; and peace is quickly restored.

Craig just smiles indulgently at the antics of this human version of his friend and willingly proof-reads everything John gives him, no matter how confusing the perpetual changes in focus are (though admittedly, he _is_ good, just – a little scatterbrained, perhaps).

And he keeps the ornate fob watch safe. Not even Sophie knows of its existence, or its hiding place: Craig knows the value of discretion.

He thinks he might end up missing John a lot after the danger is past and the Doctor comes back to himself. But maybe, if they're lucky, his friend will stay for a little while longer...

* * *

**X.**

Considering the utter madness that usually follows the Doctor everywhere he goes, Craig rather expected this 'mission' to be a lot harder.

The recorded message he was given at the start of this (once he'd got over his shock at how different the Doctor looks - enough to remember about regeneration, start breathing again and actually _listen_ to it) made it sound as if Hunters were on his tail and just a heartbeat away from destroying him and the world besides.

Instead, all is quiet in the neighbourhood, just as tranquil and pleasant as always. Really, he doesn't know why Sophie keeps hinting about moving to a different house. They're happy here, aren't they?

The Doctor seems to like it too, which is somewhat surprising; or maybe not, after all. Craig definitely understands the lure of a quiet, normal life.

What he isn't sure he can wrap his mind around, is how the Doctor could have turned into this slightly cold, shy, withdrawn teacher, moving so quietly through life.

He wonders if this is a difference due to regeneration, like the spiky hair and thinness and lack of bowties, or if it depends on whatever process the mad alien used to turn himself human.

It's kind of pleasant, though; Professor Smith thinks Craig is an old friend from boarding school (not that Craig ever went to boarding school, in actuality) and he's good company, if a little... unexciting. Sophie's rather enamoured with him and Craig, thankfully, got over his jealousy of the Doctor the last time he lived here, so he doesn't even mind her appreciative comments about his hair. Much.

It's a good life, this is. It's probably doing some good to that mad alien, too. And yet...

Craig finds himself missing the absurdity of _his_ Doctor (or maybe all Doctor, so long as they're alien).

Isn't it strange? He is more than content with his quiet life: he's happy. So happy that he could beat that alien ship that had parked itself atop his house, just by the strength of his feeling at peace with his life.

Yet the manic energy that swept through his life during the Doctor's brief stay (for all that he brought danger along like a cherished companion) had been exciting and great, and ultimately made him cherish even more all that he had – his house and quiet life and serene future with Sophie.

He sits in his living room, playing scrabble with his beloved Sophie and his sort-of best-friend, a bottle of wine shared in camaraderie among them while the telly buzzes softly in the background; and for the first time, he wonders if, perhaps, the Doctor might agree to take him on a little trip once he's back to himself.

Just a short one – he still doesn't want to _travel_. But maybe, just maybe, he does want another dose of his mad alien friend's peculiar brand of excitement. A little dash of it – not too much – that would remind him of how much he wants this peace instead...

Maybe he'll ask, eventually.

In the meanwhile, though, he takes his role as guardian very seriously, and watches over the absent-minded John Smith and over the ornate fob watch that holds his true essence with dutiful care.

* * *

**IX.**

Finding a blue police box parked in his living room makes Craig stop in his track, blink, then roll his eyes good-naturedly. It'll be good to see the Doctor again, but he's going to mention parking in the garden rather pointedly, as soon as the mad alien turns up to say hi.

Finding a man who looks nothing like the Doctor passed out just inside the impossibly big room he's finally dared to check out after nothing happens for a long while, is a bit of a bigger shock; but soon enough hurried memories catch up with him and disorientation gives way to understanding: right, regeneration. This is obviously a different incarnation; Craig wonders how similar or different he might be, and whether he'll ever see _his_ friend again.

And more importantly: why is he unconscious?

The recorded message springing to life the moment he touches the nearest coral-like surface makes him falter, but only briefly. Then he listens to it again. And again.

And then he sighs and sets about dragging the now-apparently-a-human Doctor's body out and onto his couch.

By the time the human Doctor wakes up, he's hidden the ornate fob watch in as secure a place as he can come up with and he's thought up a good enough cover story (he hopes).

Soon, Major John Smith has introduced himself and is thanking him profusely for helping him after his 'accident', Craig is reassuring him that the bloody (imaginary) idiot who played baseball in his backyard and had such abysmal aim as to hit a passerby is being taken care of by his (imaginary) 'fearsome mother', and the very, very odd police box planted right in the middle of the room is explained away as 'modern art'.

Major Smith is polite enough not to voice the thoughts that are clearly readable on his face at that. Craig doesn't mind being thought a nutter – he has to be, after all, to go along with the Doctor's mad plans... again... – but he appreciates his restraint.

It takes little time to ascertain that the 'implanted story' the recording mentioned has the alien-turned-human settled in the house for sale just two numbers down, which is rather convenient. He's apparently going to work at the local walk-in clinic and Craig makes a note of coming down with something now and then, to keep an eye on him.

Sophie comes home with the baby in tow just in time to invite him for a 'welcome in the neighbourhood' dinner and though it's clear he'd rather decline, Major Doctor Smith is too polite to do so. They quickly make plans to see each other over the weekend.

Sophie is glad - she's rather taken with the 'tragic aura' she insists she can feel around the man and is determined to befriend him.

Craig is glad, too – it'll be easier to keep an eye on him if they manage to become friends, and besides, the grief and loneliness in his eyes say that it'd do him some good to interact with people more.

And Stormy is too little to have an opinion unless the actual Doctor is around to translate Baby speech, but he grins adorably at his father and bumps him fondly with the light blue plushie, so Craig counts it as a 'yay' vote on the whole thing.

All in all, everything's off to a good start: except for the glower Sophie spears him with, when she catches sight of the Tardis in the living room.


	4. Madame Vastra

**Vastra**

**XI.**

Vastra isn't entirely sure that the threat is real. It might just be that the Doctor is making it all up to have an excuse to not be himself for a while. It might also just be possible that it _is_ real: it's crazy enough for that Time Lord's life, after all.

She doesn't mind either way.

If it's real, she'll respect the Doctor's choice on how to face, or not face as it were, these mayfly-like Hunters: they are _his _enemies and she's equally alright with following his lead in dealing with them and with providing assistance when his plan will fall through. Which, she fears, is inevitable: she does know him well.

If it isn't real... well; turning himself into an ape, however ludicrous, is still preferable to the sulking and moping he's been doing on that cloud of his. She won't begrudge him this respite – in fact, she rather approves.

She regards him thoughtfully over the rim of her tea-cup.

As a gentleman of the Victorian age she has chosen as her residence, he is surprisingly believable. It seems turning himself Human has deprived him of most of his wild, manic manners and, sitting properly in her drawing room as he does, he makes a creditable figure indeed.

He doesn't seem perturbed by her uncommon appearance, despite his loss of memories: apparently the 'residual awareness' he mentioned when he asked for her help is sufficient for him to accept her without question, in spite of his rather boring fake-background as the son of a country gentleman. She's grateful for that.

"I believe I shall make an appearance at this demonstration by that interesting Italian, that Marquis of Marconi... wireless telegraphy! Does that not sound capital?" he says abruptly, folding the newspaper he's been perusing.

He looks mighty pleased, as always when a scientific discovery or other is presented to London's eager public. Vastra doesn't particularly share his enthusiasm, but she approves of it nonetheless.

He is, after all – quite appropriately she thinks – a 'gentleman astronomer' of the Royal Astronomical Society and spends much of his time at Burlington House, availing himself of its fine library and 'accidentally' trespassing into the rooms (and the interests) of the Geological Society, and the Linnean Society, and even the Society of Antiquaries. It makes his company over dinner rather interesting, besides keeping him busy (and mostly out of trouble).

Her beautiful Jenny, playing as usual the perfect maid, comes to take away the tea things, smiling indulgently as 'Mr. Smith' rambles on about sound waves and spark coil generators and a carbon granular rectifier for reception; they exchange a fond glance that he doesn't notice.

When he leaves, still happily muttering about primitive (albeit useful) inventions, Vastra nods to herself. This ape version of him seems to be doing well. That is undoubtedly a relief. Her strongbox, hidden in her dusty attic, will keep the ornate fob watch that encases his essence safe.

She needs not worry about a thing.

She rises gracefully, drawing her veil before her with practised elegance, and goes about her business of catching a murder before, perhaps, enjoying tonight's entertainment at the music hall...

* * *

**X.**

The more the Doctor changes, Vastra reflects, the more he stays the same.

She meditates on fearsome eyebrows and a Scottish accent, on sharp, silvery blue eyes and a colder, more withdrawn behaviour; on infinite sadness in kind green eyes and velvet-clothed shoulders hunched under the burden of many sorrows; on frantic gesturing underscoring enthusiastic rants and bright bow ties and genial smiles; and now, on trainers and long, sandy overcoats and soulful brown eyes, on careless elegance and faked enthusiasm and a grief very much like desperation.

And, as always, on veils and masks.

He's still so very old and yet, somehow, so much younger than she's used to.

Her brilliant mind has little trouble grasping the mechanics of his latest (from her point of view, at least) crazy plan. His Time Lord consciousness safely hidden in a fob watch entrusted to her protection; his body in the temporary care of a constructed personality well-suited to fit in the environment of choice; residual awareness of his allies so that he might count on their help and support. All in all, it makes quite a lot of sense – in the mad, Time-Lordish way she'll never admit she rather enjoys.

In truth, danger or not, she is not at all surprised at his choice to play the ape (she well knows he is fond of the species – and it would hypocritical of her to criticize, she reflects, sending an appreciative glance at her very Human soon-to-be-wife).

She gives her support and promises her help willingly enough.

She's almost touched by the relief and gratitude she (briefly) elicits – but then again, _this_ him doesn't know her yet: from his point of view, their story's yet to come... he has no reason to trust her so, apart from the fact that she is, apparently, his ship's choice (a rather flattering notion).

She's also very, very curious about the process of utilizing the chameleon arch and quite determined to make a study of the whole experience.

The results, she finds, are both intriguing and telling.

The fact , for instance, that he thinks of himself as a widower, speaks very highly of whoever his last companion was; especially since he doesn't seem to be acquainted with Doctor Song, yet. She doubts even Miss Clara could command such cherished devotion from him. Miss Rose must have been very special.

She would not have expected him, however, to be so prejudiced: his haughty reserve towards her because of her gender and how bluntly dismissive he is of Jenny for her apparent station are hard to bear, even if her beloved laughs it off good-naturedly.

Of course, it might simply be that Dr. John Smith is very much a man of this time, with all the blind prejudice and foolish notions she's come to expect from contemporary apes; yet she wonders if perhaps this doesn't tell something of the Doctor himself, after all. In all his usual dealings with other species, his superiority of mind and of skills is so clear, and so real, that his arrogance does not normally offend: he is generally acknowledged to have a right to think so highly of himself. It does not change the fact that the arrogance is there, no matter how bearable to his companions.

Vastra finds herself studying keenly this quiet, restrained gentleman, who nevertheless displays more honest emotion than the Doctor ever shows.

She reminds herself that he is _not _the Doctor, and that the real him is safely ensconced in the ornate fob watch she now holds; yet there are instances that lead her to believe there is more to the predicted 'residual awareness' than he admitted. Small, momentary appearances of quick-thinking and sure-footed movement, whenever he perceives someone to be in danger (as if deep inside, he simply can't help himself); his instinctual reaction to being offered a gun – to recoil in obvious disgust; his slips about Gallifrey (that, she amusedly agrees, must, indeed, be in Ireland!).

And then there is that journal he is forever scribbling (and sketching!) in...

She observes him intently as he goes about his fabricated life – she finds herself half puzzled and half fascinated by her guest.

If she is entirely truthful, however, it is his chosen profession that surprises her the most.

A doctor! An actual, medical doctor. For all that he calls himself such, she has never once seen him practise medicine before. She always thought his title of 'healer' to be more metaphorical than anything.

Yet he has produced qualifications from Glasgow – from this time, even: a medical degree dated 1888. She idly wonders how he managed that, or if, perhaps, he has yet to. Time Lords could turn clear strings of causality into complicated wrapped balls of confusion better than kittens playing with wool.

Yes, she is certainly compiling a rather long list of questions and observations for whenever one of the real hims next comes for tea – be it the brusque, contemplative, pragmatic one in dark blue, or the cheerful, quirky, world-weary one in tweed, or even an entirely new him (again).

They won't be short on topics for intriguing (in her opinion at least) conversation anymore, that's for sure.

* * *

**IX.**

Vastra is puzzled at the Doctor's coming to her – especially _this_ him, that she's never met and likely never will again – but she is too proud and refined to let her bewilderment be apparent.

She merely welcomes him into her house, and, mindful of the hurried explanations and pleas of the recorded message that informed her of the situation, doesn't outwardly react at his very Human and clearly amnesiac self; instead, she graciously acknowledges the non-existent relation to her non-existent late husband that justifies his being her guest to the eyes of Victorian society.

Her household is very familiar with twisting and bending the truth of their lives around the rather ridiculous requirements of the time she's chosen as her own, in any case.

The upset of their lives is, to be truthful, minimal; and not entirely unwelcome.

For one thing, Strax is full of admiration for 'Colonel Smith ' – insomuch as a Sontaran can be. He always salutes their guest (regardless of propriety), is full of vocal promises for glorious deaths in battle (for either of them, or perhaps both) and has not once mentioned dumping the Colonel in acid.

Vastra has taken care to introduce the Sontaran as a former soldier, turned butler after an injury, and as a consequence, the Human treats him with more respect and more patience than any other probably has, letting him reminisce about battles fought light years away in different timezones with just the occasional moment of confusion, when he has trouble placing the battlefields of the Magellanic Cloud in central Africa or Afghanistan.

Strax quite adores him.

Her Jenny, on the other hand, does not.

She is, of course, too sweet and kind to let it show, but Vastra knows her well.

It is perhaps a source of concern, but only a small one. There is respect in her towards this Colonel Smith; it's just that he is too much of a soldier for her to truly admire, and too gruff and curt-mannered to be found charming.

Vastra feels somewhat similarly – his manners are certainly not engaging, and there is little to _like_ in him – but she is not ashamed to admit that she feels a deeper kinship with this him than she does with the bow-tie wearing one. She is a warrior, and so is he; and both have grown weary of senseless fighting. They understand each other.

She wonders if he might be interested in joining her in her nocturnal activities, sometimes; put his skill to use for the betterment of all, and thus, maybe, reconcile himself with himself. Perhaps she will offer. It might be only the ornate fob watch hiding his true self that she promised to protect, but it does not follow that she should not interest herself into the man's well-being.

As for the threat hunting him, it will be no trouble to incorporate in her usual patrolling ways the need to be aware of these mayfly-like creatures – indeed, she half-hopes for a chance to hunt them in earnest. She rather believes she would enjoy that.


	5. Jack Harkness

**Jack**

**XI.**

Jack has long given up understanding the Doctor. The Time Lord is the quintessential eccentric, and all the more interesting for it. In any case, after living through a few millennia it doesn't even frustrate Jack anymore. If anything, he appreciates the unpredictability of his dear friend. It adds spice to a life that could, if Jack let it, be utterly unbearable.

He could hardly have guessed it before he was... changed; but boredom and fatigue are his worst enemies - and the wearying sorrow of loss over and over and...

Well.

Suffice to say that, when the Doctor with a fondness for bow-ties and fezzes (and hats in general. Jack is half-contemplating buying him a colourful jester one, just because. With bells. He'd love it, he just knows it) – when he comes looking for help, Jack is all too ready to lend his assistance.

The Doctor's plan, as usual, is more outlandish, more intriguing and more compassionate than anything Jack could have guessed.

It is also, quite unlike usual, rather sedate.

Essentially, Jack reflects, it boils down to waiting. Let the short-lived Hunters that are on his trail die of natural causes, while he hides away _as a human_. (Seriously!) Strolling around the early 18th century Europe – a place and time chosen for no reason apparent to the immortal.

Well. It's not as if Jack doesn't have the time.

He's rather fascinated by the apparatus of projectors and glass sheets, paints and candles, wooden silhouettes and music boxes that are essential to their – very unexpected – career as Magic Lantern operators.

The Doctor – or rather, John Smith, the human who's temporarily inhabiting the Doctor's body – is a consummate showman, a keen storyteller with a fine sense of dramatic timing and excellent skill in arranging brightly coloured, wonderfully animated entertainments for the hundreds of people from all walks of life, who flock to their wagon week after week, eager to be surprised, entertained, mystified by his charm as much as by his wondrous Lanterns.

Jack, for his part, has absolutely no problems with his double role of bodyguard (the roads are anything but safe in these times) and barker, catching the passersby's attention with loud sales spiels and his disarming smile (and getting himself... _acquainted_, with a number of deliciously _fun_ opportunities, in spite of everything).

His only worry had been about himself – if these aliens could feast on life-energy, wouldn't he be a right banquet? The Doctor had been confident that they wouldn't dare attempt it, though: Jack is, apparently, too much – an indigestion for sure. Remembering Abaddon, his mind is set at ease. Should it come to that, the experience will be less than pleasant, to be sure, but no threat to the universe at large – and that is all that matters, ultimately.

Meanwhile, there's a show to enjoy (and a more private aftershow later on).

* * *

**X.**

When Jack had saluted the Doctor in a nightclub that had marked simultaneously the lowest point of the last disastrous decades and the start of an unexpected climb towards some sort of serenity, he had believed that to be their last meeting.

He isn't ashamed to admit he'd mourned his friend – having gone through it already, he knows that for all that the Doctor stays himself through a regeneration, he also changes so radically as to be, in fact, dead to those who'd known and loved him, no matter how much they might come to know and love the new him in time.

So he'd felt like his difficult (but still cherished) relationship with the mystifying Time Lord with the great hair and even better coat was over, and he'd mourned.

Looking back, that was an extremely naive outlook for a time traveller.

Perched on the uncomfortable bench by the shuttle stop, he sips his morning cup of ilex – the pseudo-coffee made from Stoan holly seeds that makes him feel Ianto's loss again with bitter fondness – and watches the natural greenish tinge of this sky while he waits for 'John Smith' to meet them. By his side, his lover is muttering his way through the morning paper.

Alonso has taken it all in stride, much more easily than him.

His newest lover has been, right from the start, a steady comfort and invaluable support for the weary Captain. He has a quiet pragmatism to him, a steady, no-nonsense attitude, and a hidden moral fibre as strong as steel, that makes his belief in what is right unshakable.

Jack admires him as much as he cherishes him.

He is genuinely puzzled at why Alonso stays with him – not that he would have been surprised at his _coming back_ after their first night together, Jack knows how good he can make a partner feel, but Alonso _stay__s_. Not for the sex – alright, not _just_ for the sex – but for... for...

Jack isn't even sure.

He is grateful, though. He isn't made for loneliness, which makes his fate all the more harder to bear.

He'd tried only once to ask, and Alonso had laughed, almost incredulous that he could be in doubt. "I had forgotten why I'd wanted to be among the stars when I was a child, how vast and beautiful and enchanting the universe is," he'd said. "You _live_ so fiercely, Jack, so intensely. When I'm with you, the horizon is always broader. You make everything seem - better."

Jack knows none of that is real – he never could make anything better, in fact, he is always making things worse; making the choices no-one else would dare, the choices anyone else could only condemn him for, the choices that bring pain and grief and death to all close to him. Stephen's face still torments him most nights, and Ianto's and – _so_ many others, really.

He doesn't argue too much, however, because he loves Alonso and any scrap of love, however brief, makes eternity seem a little lighter.

In a way, he is coming to realize, the Doctor's unsteady and challenging friendship does the same. Perhaps that's also a form of love.

Besides, even eternity won't ever be dull around that crazy Time Lord. Chameleon arch indeed!

That the Doctor could turn himself human isn't entirely unexpected: Jack remembers the Crucible all too well – he still hasn't forgiven his friend for high-handedly trapping Rose beyond his reach – and also what came of it. _Who_ came of it.

Nevertheless, it is unpredicted. (Which is typical, really. The day he can predict the Doctor, he'll... he will... nope; he can't actually wrap his mind around it).

That he would choose this path in order to avoid committing yet another genocide is understandable – this is the man who cried on his worst tormentor's body, much as Jack is still bitter about it – and Jack can even approve.

That he would come to Jack for help is, he admits, a relief. The Captain can't help craving the Time Lord's friendship and approbation, still (he suspects he always will), and in truth, he doesn't mind being sought out only when the Doctor needs something. There are so many others who would give all of themselves for him, after all, he doesn't _need_ Jack; that he claims to do so, is a comfort.

That they would all end up living on Sto is a bit mind-boggling (the Captain would have expected, and honestly preferred, Earth) but Jack is adaptable. Always has been, and now even more so.

In any case, there are worse places than the Casivanian Belt in the 21st century (political climate aside. Jack is rather tempted to help out with the fight for cyborg rights, for all that they should avoid big historical events, as per the Doctor's instructions) and perhaps it serves to make things easier for his lover.

Jack honestly doesn't know what they would do without Alonso (except trudge along and make it up as they go, as is their usual M.O., he supposes): his practical mind is invaluable in the current circumstances. He has offered his parents' old house, closed since their deaths, for their stay, for which Jack is very grateful; he lets the Captain work out his tangled emotions, listening to his tales and rants with equanimity; and calmly sees to it that both him and 'John Smith' lack nothing in their temporary daily lives.

Jack has even admitted to him that he's getting a taste for this quiet, affectionate life of theirs.

Plus, watching the Doctor take over the set of _By The Light of the Asteroids_ as temporary director, while the usual one is off on a very scandalous elopement with his cyborg assistant, is _hilarious_.

And if he himself is begged to take a part in the infamous soap... well, there is a reason why Joofy Crystal has believably had five husbands in it, and he has no objections to playing the sixth. Especially since Alonso isn't at all opposed to a little... flexibility.

In the end, he finds himself enjoying this new adventure with boyish abandon he had not expected to feel again (not after Grey. Likely not ever).

What makes his days, however, is the easy camaraderie between him and ' John Smith ', which brings him back to those golden, cherished days with Rose and the Doctor in leather: he has sorely missed his friend.

Here's to hoping he won't lose him again when the time comes to open that ornate fob watch.

* * *

**IX.**

The snow is falling thick and fast, reducing their visibility in a dangerous way, but at least there is no wind to threaten a blizzard.

Jack is willing to count each and every one of their blessings.

The sea is rumbling to their left, a threatening but steady presence, guiding their steps; the cold is so sharp that they cannot smell the slightly sulphurous saltiness he well remembers in the air, however, not even this close to the crashing waves.

He stops for a moment, huddling in his greatcoat and thanking the Tardis silently for the multi-layered clothes and self-warming gloves and boots she's provided him with before dumping them in this mess.

He turns to look at the stuttering line of faltering, shivering civilians and the too few crew members helping them along.

His trained mind is computing distances and resources and probabilities, the way the Agency drilled into them for any 'stranded in time' emergency. He doesn't like the results of his evaluation much.

If they're lucky, if they're really, very lucky, they'll make it to the caves that should be on the other side of this bay, according to the topography revealed by the exploration satellites. He can imagine the haphazard camp already, the soft buzzing of the salvaged power supply systems, the smells of cooking and living that will soon warm the spaces they'll repair to. If they make it that far.

He knows when they are, at least – and the irony would make him laugh, if the situation wasn't so dire. This his homeworld (albeit the wrong continent) and this, _they_, are the first wave of colonization, newly arrived from Earth on what will become known as the First Great Winter. Stuff of legend - he's studied it in school as a child, for pity's sake.

He remembers learning how the colonizing ship, the Pilgrimage, crash-landed devastatingly, killing off two thirds of the crew and colons and stranding the others without comm systems nor propulsors, on the wrong side of the target planet, in the middle of a minor Ice Age. He remembers being ten and loving the novelised adventures of the First Pioneers, remembers playing their adventures out with his friends on the grassy beaches of the Boeshane Peninsula, in the other hemisphere of this very planet.

Never thought he'd _be_ one of them.

Never quite realized how _not_ glamorous it would be, either; but that's not surprising, not to a former Time Agent.

He's really starting to feel depressed at how much of his former training and mindset this adventure is bringing to the forefront.

He's also trying very firmly not to think of how low the recorded percentage of survivors of this First Great Winter is.

The only saving grace is that Rose is safely at her mum's, left there for a cousin's hen-night while the Doctor dragged Jack away (much to his chagrin) on a spare parts hunting trip. Once the danger is over, once the Doctor's back to himself, they'll go attend the wedding (despite much grumbling on the Doctor's part, Jack is sure) with Rose and then leave again, the three of them together, as it should be. She'll never know anything's gone so wrong.

If, of course, Jack can keep the Doctor safe for the required three months.

He valiantly resists the temptation to check that the precious fob watch is still in his pocket. He can't afford to draw attention to it by touching it all the time, no matter how reassuring it would be. Besides, he's a damn fine Agent, or was at least: he's above needing such comfort!

Soft steps crunch the fresh snow from his right, strangely loud despite the howling wind, and he turns to meet the icy blue eyes of the Doctor's body.

Chameleon Arch, he thinks, fighting down the quick wave of disorientation at missing the heavy weight of centuries in them, the reflex of the turn of the universe that is there when the Doctor is himself. Who thought such a thing could possibly exist?

"Lieutenant," the familiar voice, devoid of any familiar accents, greets him curtly in his native tongue.

"Sir," he nods back, unconsciously straightening as if this human was really his direct superior - the highest ranking officer still alive, the one responsible for them all; because it feels rather natural, despite everything. Then again, _he_ is acting as if Jack is really his right hand man, second in command, and trusted friend.

And Jack finds it ironic, and also not, that these are the identities and the roles the Tardis built for them (however that works – though he suspects there will be the closing of a few circular paradoxes in their future, before they can leave this chilling adventure behind): of friends and comrades, but also leader and supporter.

Ironic, and truthful, and perhaps reassuring; because he's known for a while, now, that the Doctor is just that - the kind of leader he'd wished he could find and follow back when he was a Time Agent.

And the kind of friend he'll follow into any hell, and never doubt.


	6. Donna Noble

**Donna**

**XI.**

Donna doesn't know whether to be flattered or horrified. Or maybe just sad.

The Doctor explained to her about regeneration, more or less; so him showing up with a different face and a frankly appalling fondness for bowties isn't all that shocking. That he's from his personal future and has stressed about a million times that pinstripes-him _cannot_ know about all this, once she's back with him, is also fairly easy to accept: as he (pinstripes-he) would say, it's 'timey-wimey' – Donna can handle that, she's a _time-traveller_ now, after all. And turning himself human to hide? She's heard more ludicrous things from him.

But bloody hell! ...Does that now-bow-tie-loving Dumbo of a Martian have nobody to trust in _his _present? Not that she isn't willing to help him out – of course she is; but honestly! She's told him, she's _told_ him that he needs someone! Obviously _she_ is dead and gone by the time he's _this_ him – human and all, that's only to be expected; but she'd hoped he'd learned his lesson and found himself someone else to keep him grounded. He's useless on his own, that one.

Case in point...

Well, at least she's here to help him; but now she'll fret and worry about him-after-her, on top of fretting and worrying about him-after-Rose, and oh, yes, let's not forget the additional worrying and fretting about the current crisis; because let it not be said that that Spaceman can go anywhere without stumbling into some disaster or other!

A family of green-skinned tourists dotted with stings like cactuses comes up to her desk and she turns her attention to them with a bright fake smile.

As jobs go, front-office duties at AdvenTours LTD isn't bad (she's certainly temped in worse places) and Earth in the early 32nd century is a rather pleasant place to live in.

Apparently, some three hundred years previous solar flares chased everybody away, to live in exile in enormous starships for decades (which Donna finds a rather dreadful thought, all in all), but then when the environment was safe again, humanity was prompt in coming back and rebuilding and by 'now', Earth is a renown tourist trap, flourishing thanks to well-preserved archaeological sites and periodic revivals of 'the Old Ways'.

It seems to her, judging by the number of tourists from all over the Galaxy that pass through her agency daily, that everybody and their pet dog (or pet squid, she thinks, eyeing the tentacled squishy thing in the arms of a young girl just outside) wants to visit her home planet – the 'Cradle of Humanity'. She's rather proud of it, on the whole, even if it's weird to give out indications about the 'ancient settlement of Manhattan'.

At least they're not in London (or what's left of it): she doesn't think she could bear to see her hometown in ruins with enough composure. Manhattan... well – she's never been there, has she? In a way, it's more alien than Egypt, or the Oodsphere.

It's a real hotspot for tourism, however – she deftly hands out informational holo-chips to a group from Io – and tourist agencies have sprouted up all over the place, so they fit right in.

She smiles at the dark-skinned, anxious woman who's pelting her with questions, and then to the eager gentleman who's next in line, patiently reassuring them that John Smith is the best guide in the quadrant. Which is the absolute truth: whatever memories turning himself human has robbed the Doctor of, his encyclopaedic knowledge of... everything, basically... is intact, and so is his enthusiasm in sharing the oddest notions and anecdotes. Really, tour guide is a surprisingly apt career path for him.

She's just gathered the latest heterogeneous group at the starting point of a tour and finished distributing the emergency transmat bracelets (just in case) when the back door blows open dramatically and Himself makes his usual, impressive entrance. Donna snorts – his flair for drama has, if anything, increased – but smiles warmly at him; he gives back a huge, boyish grin, looking as eager and pleased as a kid with a new toy.

In no time at all, he's caught every last tourist in his spell, charisma oozing from him like a warm wave; even the sour grape who's irritated Donna to the brink of a sound slap is wide-eyed and breathless with excitement. They all move out eagerly, following his lead, already hanging on his every word. Donna smiles fondly.

Returning to her post, she briefly touches the ornate fob watch she keeps hidden from view under her desk station, just reassuring herself that it's still there and safe. As usual, feelings of calm trust reach out to her from it and she focuses once more on the incoming online requests, mood inexplicably cheered.

A rather good life, no complications with the human-him nor with the Time-Lord-in-a-watch-him, and no sign of whatever was hunting him, to her great relief: everything's going well.

So long, that is, as he can get her back to where and when he's picked her up, so that pinstripes-him will not notice anything amiss!

She knows that daft Martian would worry. And besides, she doesn't mind helping a future him out, as sad as the implications of his loneliness make her; but she rather misses _her_ Spaceman all the same.

* * *

**X.**

Donna has to admit it: she doesn't mind living in Yazuris. Not at all.

She had some serious doubts about this harebrained plan of the Doctor's at first – turning himself human? Seriously?! – but it isn't as bad as she feared after all. Sure, he's a little strange in this version, but when isn't he, really?

And they're living the good life. She has to hand it to the Tardis: the magnificent ship has set them up really well.

Yazuris, capital metropolis of Trianon II (or, as the locals prefer to call the planet, Teremon) is the theatre of the greatest peace conference of the century – the 23rd, as it turns out, which Donna is rather thrilled about because their vocally-activated technology is awesome, and the make-up available! Why, she looks ten years younger and with barely any effort!

Delegations from a seemingly endless number of planets, moons, colonies, independent star ships and whatnot have converged here to 'build a peace to end all wars'. Donna can't help being sceptical of their chances of success, but the effort is admirable and she'll grant them this much.

Of course, the Doctor is in the middle of it – or rather, John Noble is: the Doctor-turned-human who doesn't remember a thing about time-travelling, universe-saving adventures or amazing sentient ships or Families of Blood; who thinks he grew up on the wooded moon of Drazzaks, and wears the flower-patterned trousers and colourful, ribbon-covered jackets of that planet without qualms and believes that – wait for it – Donna is his _sister_.

Amusingly, nobody seems to doubt their relation at all: it's Pompei all over again (but she's relieved that this time he's taken her surname, at least). Even more amusingly, John is jealous of her hair, of all things. He moans regularly that it's so unfair she got to be ginger and he didn't, when they had the same probability of inheriting the gene; she collapses into laughter every time.

It's good, this sibling-relationship they have. She's never had a brother, but she likes it now. They bicker on every small thing, which is rather like it is with her and the Doctor actually, and have each other's back, always, on everything important.

Drazzaks, as she quickly found out, is a backwater moon from the edge of beyond, only invited to the peace conference as an afterthought, because it's the one place in the galaxy which produces the rare and highly sought-after spice lalragonyer (a name she's spent quite some time practising the pronunciation of, because it would not do for a native of Drazzaks not to know it, would it?) and nobody wanted to risk anyone else getting full rights to exploit it.

John is the Ambassador representing it and Donna, to her absolute delight, has _status_ because of it.

She's expected to manage this temporary household of theirs (since he isn't married) and make sure the (very small) delegation he leads is well-settled and that no problems with the accommodations and such are arising, and she's equally expected to attend posh parties and various entertainment events for the diplomats and their families, rubbing elbows with the rich and powerful and playing the part of a great Lady, albeit a provincial one.

She's thoroughly enjoying herself.

As for the Doctor, well, John is slowly but surely taking over half the meetings, arranging accords and drawing treaties and generally pushing and pulling and sweeping up everybody into going his way - which he isn't technically supposed to do, tampering with major events and all that, but she reckons it would be too much to ask him not to, human version or not. He'll just have to fix whatever problems might arise once he's back to his Time Lord self.

Besides, she's open-mouthed with admiration at his diplomatic skills – not that she expected anything less – and she flatters herself that she's helping him a little too, what with keeping him up-to-date on all the gossip she's nosing into.

The roles the Tardis crafted for them suit both him and her just fine. She reflects that it might just suit Drazzaks fine too, because that little corner of the galaxy is gaining a lot more advantages than any other envoy would have managed to secure, she's sure of it. Last she's heard, a good third of the commercial routes in the quadrant have been rearranged to include Drazzaks...

The only real source of concern to her are John's dreams. He's confided in her right from the start, with the naturalness of a close brother, and she's recognized the snippets of his real life for what they are: Daleks and Adipose, Agatha Christie and Charles Dickens, the Tardis' swimming pool and a timey thingamagingie he used a time or two...

He's even taken the time to record it all in short CG video format – who knew he had such an artistic streak to him?

And there she is, among brief sequences of clock-gears in 18th century get-ups and a disquieting blond man laughing hysterically: a pretty girl with a beautiful smile and blond hair showing dark roots, once clad in a gorgeous Victorian gown, once in a very pink Fifties dress, once in jeans and a T-shirt with the Union Jack...

He breathes her name in a confused, yet tortured way and she knows, this is 'her-name-was-Rose' Rose.

"Isn't it absurd?" he asks with a small, forced laugh. "Me, an intergalactic explorer, saving the universe every other day...!"

She smiles gently, letting another short video of what looks like witches escaped from Macbeth play out.

"One would think I'd like to write screenplays rather than treaties," he jokes weakly.

She knows she can't tell him the whole truth: he was most adamant about that before activating the Chameleon Arch; she won't risk it – him – for anything. Yet she can't bring herself to dismiss all this.

"John," she says softly. "You're grieving. I know you put on a brave face, and it's necessary out there, where you're the Lord Ambassador with everybody's eyes pinned on you. But _I _know how hard losing Rose hit you. Please don't feel like you have to hide from me." She hugs him gently. "And if the grief you're suffocating during the day comes out as childish games of make-believe at night, well, what's wrong with that? I'll listen to all your fantastical stories any time you like."

He hugs her back gratefully – and they do just that: it becomes their breakfast ritual, him telling her an adventure he's had (remembered) in his dreams the previous night. It seems to help him, and she loves it. She wonders whether he'll agree to continue when he's back to himself, four weeks from now.

Tonight, however, the end of their current adventure is still quite far; tonight, the delegation from Karthoria is hosting a gala and she's ready to be one of the stars.

She's quite enjoying her success: apparently, both her hair and complexion make her a true beauty these days. She has quite a number of suitors, even. Of course, she's smart enough to realize more than half of them are more attracted to her being (supposedly) an aristocrat with a very wealthy brother, or hoping to influence said more and more influential brother through her; but not all.

The Duke of New Mauritius seems to genuinely like her and even though he's bald, she finds his delicate lilac skin, strong body and deep green eyes totally attractive. She's promised him the first dance tonight and just the thought puts a smile on her face.

Hopefully she won't have to run too much interference for John, who's completely hapless against the many scheming, gold-digger socialites endowed with young and pretty daughters; really, though, what do all those silly girls find in him? As smart and funny as he is, it doesn't change the fact that he's a skinny streak of nothing...

With a last glance at her vivid reflection in the thin sheet of opaque light that constitutes a mirror in this century, she puts the finishing touches to her form-flattering, burgundy gown – and oh, how she loves the latest trend from Azuria, the fashion capital of this century: it's made for her curves! – and grabs the ID bracelet holding her diplomatic passes and various access codes, as usual grimacing at its ugly grey thickness. You'd think an age which can produce stunningly beautiful hovering hats of ethereal grace, would do something about the design of something as indispensable as this!

John is waiting for her in the foyer, impeccable in his refined, if completely odd, formal wear; he turns to her with a tired smile: "Ready?"

She laughs at his carefully concealed gloom. He's never one for mingling with the socialites: his passion and skill flare brightly in the work meetings, the huge assemblies, or in the discreet tête-à-tête of gentle persuasion and agreements-on-the-side.

But this, too, is necessary.

Donna checks that the ornate, Time-Lord-holding fob-watch she's entrusted with (and never, ever leaves: wouldn't do to lose her Spaceman!) is in place and takes his arm.

The night is theirs!

* * *

**IX.**

Donna slips into the cheaply-furnished back office – more of an oversized cupboard really – and narrows her eyes at the rangy, muscled form stretched out, over an uncomfortable chair and a good portion of the cluttered desk which takes up most of the space in the room.

He's asleep on the job –_ again_.

From the tips of his military boots, crossed over said desk without a care for the paperwork he's rumpling, to the worn paperback he's opened atop his face to block out the overhead neon glare, he is very much asleep. On the job.

A muscle twitches on her face in irritation. For God's sake, he's even snoring!

"Two days, tops," he'd told her. Her own, pinstripes-and-sandshoes, skin-as-a-stick, not-a-Martian version, that is; not this sexier, gruff one who's basically been thrust upon her by the Tardis.

"Two days to find a bla-bla-bla and reconfigurate the bla-bla-bla," (she hadn't bothered to keep up with the technobabble), "and then I'll take you to Mrinx. Have I ever told you about Mrinx, Donna? They have the best fashion shows of the whole Galaxy there, truly inspired high-end garments, well, if you are two headed like them, at least; and the cider! Donna, they make _banana cider_ there! You'll love their hot springs, too, have I ever told you about that time when..."

"Fine," she'd told him briskly, cutting off his usual rambling with a rather fond eye-roll. "I'll take the chance to visit Granddad, how's that? But you'd better pick me up on time, Spaceman!"

Knowing his driving, she'd been pleasantly surprised to hear the Tardis just two days later, right on the dot; but of course, it couldn't be that simple, could it?

Luckily he'd mentioned regeneration, sort of, so she'd got over her first shock soon enough (really! she'd only yelled a little); and there had been a recorded message for her too. The explanation she'd got was rather confused but she'd got the gist of it: alien hunters on his tail; him turning human to hide (she'd freaked out a bit more at this; but then again, if you go about becoming best mates with a completely bonkers alien adventurer, you've got to be ready for this kind of absurdity, she supposed); the Tardis bringing him to 'a trustworthy companion'.

She is rather flattered that the ship has chosen her, though she has to wonder why he hadn't picked someone himself. Had the idiot been travelling on his own? Typical. Well, no matter. She is here and she'll keep him out of trouble – as per usual.

Deliberately, she picks up the heaviest tome she can spy in the messy office and with precision, she lifts it high and lets it fall onto his desk, where it lands with a resounding, booming smack.

Instantly, he jumps up with a strangled cry, fighting with the paperback falling from his head and scrambling away from the desk; yelling an ouch when the lack of space behind it results in him smacking painfully into the metal archive at his back.

His half-panicked gaze morphs into a scowling glare as he rubs his elbow.

Donna smirks.

"Bloke called claiming he's got a lead on the missing girl from the Powell Estate. Wants to meet you – as in _now_, Bossman. Here's the details."

She hands over the piece of paper and just keeps smirking in the face of his dark glower.

He sighs disgustedly and snatches it, grumbling about idiot apes and boring cases and, for some obscure reason, beans on toast.

She isn't bothered; after a week and a half of this kind of behaviour, she knows how to handle him. She hands him a banana and he brightens considerably. Donna rolls her eyes fondly behind his back.

"Alright. 'm off. Waste of time if ye ask me – bound to be a runaway; and good for her, says I, Estate's bloody boring. If that idiot D.I. calls again about the Hendrick's case, remind him we ain't part of his police force and it ain't our job to do theirs. If he calls 'bout something else, demand payment up front," he rattles off.

"Will do, Detective Smith, sir!" she says cheerfully, throwing him a mock salute.

He shoots her a glare, but the corner of his mouth is twitching in amusement.

She watches him yank on his leather jacket – hmm, he is definitely a bit of alright in this version, even though not as much as-

She catches her thoughts straying towards libraries and electronic imprints and her not-husband and reins them in sharply. _Don't go there, Donna, just don't go there_, she reminds herself.

She has a brief moment of hesitation when he goes through the door, the irrational urge to stop him leaving, to keep him close and safe; she tells herself to get a grip. Even as just a human, he is a competent and brilliant private detective, perfectly able to handle anything the world might throw at him. She'll just ready tea and band-aids and her patience to deal with his mercurial mood-changes and everything will be fine.

Slipping back to her own narrow desk in the front-office (which was really a corridor hall hastily repurposed), she busies herself with a couple invoices and filing and whatnot.

She discreetly checks the ornate fob watch she'd found in the Tardis, the one that supposedly will return the Doctor to himself once the danger is over; she keeps it hidden in one of her drawers when at work, worried that she might lose it if she totes it around.

Still safe. Good.

She takes a phone call, makes a couple others, and nods to herself. This isn't any different from the many, many secretarial jobs she's taken in many, many offices; not the most glamorous way to live, perhaps, but she's confident in the role. And it's only for three months. She can do this: she is the best temp in Chiswick after all.

And _her_ Spaceman is going to owe her big for this. Oh, yes. There is some serious _shopping_ in her future!


	7. Rose Tyler

**Rose **

**XI.**

If nothing else, thinks Rose, she's getting an education.

She hadn't known what to expect (the Doctor's explanation of this mad plan had been more confusing than anything) but Luna University in 2653 had not been it; however, the Tardis has provided her with all the necessary papers to enrol as well as a flat share on campus and Rose is deeply grateful to the fantastic ship.

She's spent some time perusing the endlessly fascinating possibilities of the various undergraduate programs, and in the end, she's chosen Interspecies Diplomacy and Political Sciences, because – well. She's finding the curriculum rather easy, to her utter surprise, and life as a college student is an engaging adventure, one she's amazed and grateful to have a chance to try.

She'd been so down when this surprising, mad adventure had started. Between Sarah Jane's poised grace and Reinette's sophisticated elegance, her confidence had been severely shaken; if _that_ was the kind of woman the Doctor liked – clever, accomplished, refined – then she didn't know what he was even doing with her. She'd always known she didn't stand a chance, of course, but still...

It was being abandoned carelessly to a rather horrid death – _twice_ – that had really shattered her, though. She'd trusted him – back when he wore leather, she'd trusted him enough to let him shoot missiles at her!... Now... now she no longer could. It was heartbreaking.

She'd needed a respite from the Doctor's obvious grief over someone else and her own tormenting insecurities, so she'd begged him to take her home for a visit. Mickey had grumbled and whined, however, (he didn't want to go back so soon!) so in the end, the two of them had gone off on their own – though the Doctor wasn't too keen on that – to look for spare parts on some asteroid or other, promising to come back for her in a few hours.

Instead of going to her Mum's, however, and face the inevitable I-told-you-so, she'd wandered around the Estate – only to run into a future regeneration of the alien git himself.

She raises her head from her tablet to regard him thoughtfully.

His cover here has him in the role of a doctorate student – a bit funny, considering his actual age, but in line with his youthful aspect this time around. Very conveniently, he's been appointed – or has appointed himself, she isn't quite sure – her tutor.

And what a brilliant tutor he is. _And_ rather attractive (not that that's anything new).

She thinks he likes her, too – the blush-worthy way he looks at her sometimes, and the way he sometimes hems and hums and stutters around her...

Maybe he'll find the courage to ask her out. That would be... _weird_. But, quite possibly, the good kind of weird.

He catches her eyes from where he's pouring over tomes and she smiles instinctually, blushing when he returns it with a wide, pleased grin of his own.

He looks and acts so _young_, it's hard to believe he is the same man who's taken her hand in Henrik's basement, who's laughed with her at Queen Victoria's possible lycanthropy, who's begged her to help him hide while wearing a bow-tie, of all things.

Albeit a very cool one.

Of course, he _isn't_ the same man – not right now.

Because he's turned himself human.

And if that isn't mind-boggling, she doesn't know what could be.

He is still there, however: not in the body that belongs to him now, with floppy hair and flailing limbs and a kind of uncoordinated grace she finds charming, but inside the ornate fob watch she keeps close to her heart and would protect with her life without hesitation.

She can almost hear him, or feel him, or whatever the weird not-really-telepathy she usually shares only with the Tardis is called: a stormy yet loving presence hovering just at the edges of her consciousness, thrilling and reassuring, a lilting cascade of poetry in silvery tones that warms her heart and makes her mind flare with dreams, not unlike the Tardis' golden-blue song she hears/feels humming through her soul, comforting and exciting.

And he'd been there to grab her hand and drag her inside the new, futuristic-steampunk looking Tardis: even distracted by gaping at the changes (to the console room, and to _him_), even busy trying to follow his hurried explanations and wrapping her mind around the tangled timeline, not to mention his convoluted plan, she'd recognized the infinitely kind, adventure-loving, burdened gaze in the green eyes that had been blue, and brown, and still looked at her with love.

* * *

**X.**

"It's not that I don't like my job, Rose, you know I love my job. It's a brilliant job and I love it. It's just that _nothing's happening_. How can nothing be happening? We're in New York! The Big City, the City of Dreams, the City That Never Sleeps! So Nice They Named It Twice! There's supposed to be all sorts of things going on here – felony and wrongdoings and I don't even know! The Modern Gomorrah, that's what they call it – seat of all sorts of sinfulness and organized crime and… and… and we're stuck here with _nothing to do!_"

Rose leans nonchalantly on the corner of his desk, her usual spot these days when they aren't on a case, and marvels that changing something as fundamental as his species hasn't changed his tendency to ramble at all.

They are, indeed, stuck; though she knows that Detective John Smith doesn't really have any idea of just how true that is.

Still. It could be worse. The Tardis has set them up as private investigators and although the job turned out to be a lot less exciting than movies had led her to believe, she doesn't really mind it. Beats being a dinner lady, that's for sure. Or even a shopgirl.

"I'm bored," he whines, but Rose isn't paying him any mind. She just contemplates him where he pouts dejectedly from behind his desk, wondering once again how she managed to fall in love with an exasperating, centuries-old alien.

Except the centuries-old alien is now just a human. Because he's made himself so. Not that he'd ever mentioned he could.

Rose isn't entirely sure she understands how that works. Is he even still the Doctor?

...Does she love him still?

What is certain is that they're stuck for a good while – three months at the very least, waiting for the Hunters on their trail to die of (for them) old age, and this is only the third week.

Being trapped in the Eighties with a human version of the Doctor – in New York, no less – isn't exactly what she'd envisioned when he'd come running at full speed into the Tardis, blubbering about Hunters and time-trackers and needing to hide. Though she supposes New York is a good option, all things considered… or it would be, if the boredom of a routine life wasn't slowly driving them both mad.

She understands why he chose to hide himself away rather than face them. Truly, she does. Once you've committed genocide once, you naturally hesitate before going that route again. She's seen the raw grief and guilt of his leather-clad him and she knows all too well that this new, more light-hearted version is simply hiding it, not over it. She suspects that he'll never get over it.

That doesn't mean this turning human business and playing at domestics is easy on her. Or on him.

She does have an ace up her sleeve, though, even if she's so far kept it in reserve.

She's so glad this is happening now, rather than when he'd first regenerated.

When they'd tentatively considered the possibility, on Krop Tor, of having to take the slow path together, she'd been hesitant and awkward and so very uncertain. She's had time to think about it, though, properly think about it, since then (and berate herself for how badly she'd handled that conversation. In a way, she isn't much older than when she first started travelling with him; but in another, she's grown so very much - and every day she understands him better, and herself as well).

Now, well, she's ready for the conversation to go better – she's found a path that suits them more. Without carpets _nor_ mortgages.

"Who says we have to stay here?" she asks, because this is the conclusion she's come to after the Impossible Planet and she knows it's the right one for them.

She moves around the desk, resisting the urge to untie and retie the bandanna she's taken to wear over her head in nervousness.

"Who says we have to stay here?" she repeats and John Smith – this human not-Doctor who is, deep down, the Doctor but doesn't know it – blinks at her, blankly, for a long moment.

"No, seriously." She smiles at him charmingly, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth and pushing down the satisfaction at how his breath hitches and his gaze fastens on her lips. "We don't have to stay here and endure the smouldering boredom of summer in New York. We could travel instead."

"But what about the agency?" he protests, even though the hopeful light in his eyes shows he's already teetering on the brink of agreeing.

"John," she says cajolingly. "I'm pretty sure we could find mysteries to investigate in any port where we chose to dock our boat."

His eyebrows go up comically. "Our boat?"

"Yeah, well, we could rent one. Tour the world." She gives him a winning smile. "We could even paint it blue." She says, warming to the idea.

He doesn't understand the reference, of course, but his eyes shine with enthusiasm anyway.

"I think we should stick with trains at first," he says, amused. "Maybe hitch-hiking. Or a motorbike!" he adds quickly, ever the thrill-seeker.

"Works for me," she replies cheerfully.

And then his face breaks into the most beautiful smile and Rose can only smile back because, really. He's gorgeous when he smiles.

Ok, so they're stuck in a rather absurd situation, but... she grins even more widely.

Stuck with him, it's not so bad.

* * *

**IX.**

The warmth of an alien sun on her skin, the taste of a purplish sea on her lips, a scented breeze playing in her hair and _his_ wide smile abaft. Rose cannot be but happy.

Their current life is, she reflects, at once mighty odd and rather normal. Well, their definition of normal at least.

After she ran away with the Doctor to watch the plasma storm in the Horsehead Nebula, she'd found herself living in a blue ship, travelling randomly around with this amazing man and stopping to help wherever they were needed.

Now that they have to hide from weird, short-lived alien Hunters for a few months, she's... living in a blue ship, travelling randomly around with this amazing man and stopping to help wherever they are needed.

Granted, there are differences.

They stop in various small villages of the Archipelago rather than on various planets; the Doctor is no longer an alien (and how she will ever wrap her mind around that, she doesn't know); and their ship is rather a sturdy boat painted blue, quite lovely to be sure, but certainly no match for the frankly magnificent Tardis.

Still.

Rose finds herself loving this life just as much.

She doesn't mind at all these few months undercover on a strange and beautiful world, keeping the Doctor safe and hidden in the ornate fob watch he's entrusted her with and enjoying the company of his human placeholder in the meanwhile.

Oh, she misses the Tardis, of course: her comforting hum and temperamental landings; she misses being able to visit her Mum and Mickey at the drop of a hat; she misses walking under a different sky every day.

Most of all, she misses the Doctor – manic and enthusiastic and broody and alien. A little. A lot.

But not too much, because she can see a shadow of him in this human man – this Captain John Smith who's a bit of a sailor, a bit of a wandering merchant (and a lot of a smuggler, because they both enjoy the thrill, deep down), with a fabricated past in the Navy and a careless cynicism hiding a golden heart, wandering this world like the Doctor wanders the universe, always ready to see something new, always ready to run headlong into trouble, always ready to lend a hand to whoever might be in need.

And who still keeps his other hand firmly in hers.


End file.
